


NULLENTROPY

by kaitain



Category: Dune - All Media Types, Dune Series - Frank Herbert, Neon Genesis Evangelion
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, M/M, Mecha, Non-Linear Narrative, Varying POV
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-08
Updated: 2016-10-08
Packaged: 2018-08-20 03:48:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8235038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaitain/pseuds/kaitain
Summary: The fate of destruction is also the joy of rebirth.
    
  
It has been fifteen years since the Second Impact, a catastrophic event that Captain Umman Kudu bore witness to and only narrowly survived. Gehirn has at last succeeded in producing operational MENTΛT Units, and not at all too soon — for monstrous creatures have resumed their attacks on the planet, necessitating a daring first sortie by Paul Atreides in Unit-00.The conflict is not without consequence: Unit-00 is nearly destroyed, and with Unit-02 just short of operational, the Commander orders Unit-01 to be ready to sortie at all times. Piloted by the volatile Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, the MENTΛT is enigmatic and brutal, though strikingly efficient. Tasked with its upkeep and care, Kudu finds himself delving ever deeper into the dire machinations of Gehirn, Tleilax, and the Guild.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I've been low-key obsessed with this AU since, like, spring of 2014, no joke. One night I was sitting around thinking about NGE and thought to myself, "What if Mentat EVAs though???" because I am predictable. This completely irrational nonsense thought process caused me to think up an entire AU that works out a LOT better than I ever expected it to. A couple of years later, I've finally worked up the nerve to post some fic!
> 
> NULL is an AU that places the cast of Dune in a setting similar to the premise of NGE, explored through the lens of a minor character (Kudu, taking on a Misato-esque role). Piter's dad (mentioned only once in the non-canon Dune Encyclopedia as some guy with a name containing the letters I B B somewhere) is also there, because I thought that would be interesting somehow. Bear with me.
> 
> There's a little Pacific Rim flavor thrown in with regards to the nature of dajjal — this AU's approximation of Angels, though they originate from a rift in the planet — and the fact that I couldn't resist giving the Mentats some slick robutt codenames which we'll see Later, but otherwise it's very reliant on NGE conceits. This fic, as far as I can tell, is going to be a collection of non-linear vignettes.
> 
> Warnings: For now, nothing too intense; I'll elevate the rating and add ships/tags as more things actually happen. There's meant to be a ton of body horror pretty much at all times, and a lot of characters are going to bite it super hard. (My extremely esoteric Mentat/Guard OTP also works its way in here too. Whoops.) I love to suffer.

* * *

 “Examining Nondeclarative Memory Arrays” — Jessica [REDACTED],  
_Psychology and Cognition,_ vol. 6 (1999)

**Abstract: ** It is possible to classify long-term memory systems into two major distinctions: declarative (explicit) memory, and nondeclarative (implicit) memory. Consciously recalling and recognizing facts and events employs declarative memory. Nondeclarative memory is in action when a concept is accessed without conscious intent — implicitly. These unconsciously accessed memories influence rote performance, skills, and habits. This article establishes the significance of priming, imprinting, and conditioning in the development and maintenance of nondeclarative memories. Either pleasant or aversive stimuli can be of use in psychological conditioning; particularly effective, as we will explore, are aural and olfactory stimuli.

* * *

The MENTΛT is not yet live. Half-formed, it looms in the docks like a great wretched titan, plated in chrome and submerged to the waist in a thick ochre solution. Where its armor has not yet been affixed, its skeleton is visible, revealing a beast made up of heavy pylons and braided cables. The pylons creak; the cables droop in its cavernous torso like strange, twisted ribs.

M-0 is ugly, hunched over like a frail old man as technicians scale the scaffolding that cages its massive frame. It is the prototype unit, the grandfather of a new generation, but there is no telling when it will be operational, or what it will beget. The thing is still incomplete. The spine is not yet in any condition to support the gravid weight of the rest of it, and its joints are flimsy; already, one leg is twisted in such a way that it would hobble and limp if it were to walk.

While the engineers sit about barking at one another about what more the unit lacks, Captain Kudu takes one look at the monster and believes he knows where the heart of the issue lies: there is no heart behind its breastplate, no core to stabilize it.

He sees no point in mentioning such a thing to them. If they would even deign to speak to him, they would chide him for anthropomorphizing a machine; they would scoff and snicker at an ignorant officer’s lofty tin-man fantasy. Instead, Kudu mentions it to the younger de Vries.

Piter regards him keenly from behind his desk, chin propped on the palm one cupped hand. The fluorescent lighting of his laboratory casts stark shadows across his face; lit from above, his eyes look large and luminous, wildly blue, and the hollows of his cheekbones are skeletal. It is impossible not to note how very much he resembles his father, thin and angular and cruel. But Piter is cold and controlled, a collection of masks for every occasion, while Ibbrahim seems always to scowl, lines of deep-etched disappointment framing his mouth. Kudu has long sensed an acrimony from the old man, in the subtle harshness of his admonishments and way he looks at Kudu only with careful indifference.

But Piter likes him well enough, and Kudu is pleased by that. When he speaks, Piter turns to him, attentive and expectant — and even under his eerie blue gaze, Kudu finds himself less ill at lease. “Seems the most natural place to put a power supply, the chest,” he tells him, shrugging.

“Ah, but the solar plexus would be too vulnerable,” Piter insists. He is no engineer — a chemist, rather; a toxicologist — but he is fascinated with the delineation and destruction of form. “One swift strike to the crest of the ventral paneling, and that power supply would be compromised. To say nothing of the pilot!”

In one fluid movement, Piter tilts his head back and presses his fingertips to his slight chest, indicating the diaphragm. Kudu can imagine it more clearly now, the tremendous force of a blow reverberating through the MENTΛT's torso. It is too lean and too broad, and its innards are not compact enough to insulate prospective vitals. Returning from a brief reverie of sinew and scrap, Kudu pauses. “Pilot?”

Piter is pleased to elaborate, lacing his fingers on the surface of his desk. “Remote operation lacks sophistication. If our colossi are to function, it won’t be wholly from without. There must be nuance — a nervous system of sorts.”

 _He knows more than he lets on,_ Kudu thinks. He knows full well that Piter harbors some vague and secretive knowledge of what’s to come, passed along by his father, by Harkonnen — and passed to them in turn by Shaddam, and to Shaddam by the Guild, and so on. The chain of information has become a tangled web, most often clutched in Atreides fists and held fast by the power of their intel. It is Leto and his phalanx, after all, who forged an allegiance with the Fremen, and they who made first contact with the Worm.

“The skull, then?” Kudu asks, probing and uncertain. He envisions a warped human brain encased in chrome and plasteel, and he does not know what to make of the idea.

Piter pauses, and a thin, dissatisfied noise sounds in his throat. “No; that would be worse than the chest cavity, I daresay. It would far too simple to destabilize the mechanism, or detach it altogether. Perhaps the base of the neck, rather, or the spine.”

Kudu’s brow furrows. “Still sounds too delicate.”

“It's most compact and accessible, with superior potential for stabilization. So long as the spine is improved upon, and I think it's apparent to all that it _must_ be.” With a scoff, Piter continues: “If that isn’t already a priority, our funding is being squandered.”

Chuckling, Kudu leans back, shoulderblades grinding against the back of his seat. The simple folding chair is a recent addition to Piter's office, for he does not often have guests, but he has attested to "not mind" Kudu's company. “Harkonnen will be sore, if that’s the case.”

“He is a sour benefactor to begin with,” Piter sneers.

Kudu has seen the way they bicker — and he is no stranger himself to the Baron's enmity — but at times he suspects that the Baron is more bark than bite. He has no meaningful clearance within the facility; all privilege he possesses is merely enough to sate his curiosity and garner his favor.

“I’ll not be made to play the fool,” he had insisted once. “I am no mere coin-purse. I have my conditions, and I shall see that they're met.”

“Assuredly, sir, Gehirn does not regard you so,” Piter had lied, features slack with disinterest.

Not to be discouraged, Harkonnen had lowered his voice, his dire basso chilling the silence of the room. “Do not forget who funded your degrees, Piter, your precious research. Do not forget to whom your tribute is owed.”

And so it was agreed that Harkonnen interests would be preserved, within reason, by the organization. He would surely take advantage of Shaddam’s hospitality before long, for it was the Harkonnen instinct to devour — but for so long as he feigned knowing his place, he would remain useful, and his ignorance would be sustained. There was yet use for such an obscenely wealthy man.

Funding, though perhaps tenuous, is in no short supply. The critical dividend is time.

There is always far too little of it. Every passing second might give birth to another dread threat to the planet, some wretched thing erupting from its incubation deep beneath the sand. Even the elites among the Sardaukar forces will only subsist for so long.

It was December of 1998 when activity was noted in the desert for the second time. Another worm, they had worried. They had been wrong.

From the rift in the drying sea sprang a creature Kudu could not have imagined. The official reports classify it as a segmented, blind thing not unlike an arthropod, about one hundred and ten meters long. They describe how the combined military might of three countries and one private army could weaken it only slightly. They calculate an approximate estimate of casualties, noting the three dead men recovered from its stomach half-digested, and they puzzle over its strange vestigial limbs and the nature of the unknowable organ that roved like an eyeball set in its soft palate.

The reports do not describe what it was like to breach the thing's wretched mouth and wrench its core bodily from a fibrous web of muscle and tendon, but they do credit Captain Umman Kudu with act, calling his account of the event "valuable."

Kudu remembers dictating his account from the hospital, his hands raw and wrapped in bandages and numb with pain.

Four years later, the event has faded in his memory and his hands are healed. He recalls that day as a mass of bizarre impressions: roiling waves of sand, overpowering heat, ivory baleen dripping with acid. He recalls the shrapnel of exploding vehicles and the harsh report of useless ammunition crackling constantly around him; he recalls the relative silence inside the creature's mouth, everything muffled save for the desperate screaming of his men, already doomed by a wave of peristalsis. He recalls digging his fingers into the core overhead and feeling his gloves degrading instantly; he recalls the belated agony of the acid on his flesh.

All too well, Kudu recalls the creature and the name Leto Atreides bestowed upon it. It was only a whisper, barely loud enough to hear, yet it cut through the searing pain, the pounding in the Captain's head, the relentless chop of the helicopter blades: " _Psév̱dos_."

A MENTΛT would have dispatched the beast so simply, impervious to its tricks.

Slowly, Kudu gets to his feet. “Come, de Vries. Let’s have a look at the hull.”

A teasing note enters Piter’s voice as he stares up at Kudu, haughty and elegant. “You’ve not been so keen on the science of things in a great while, Captain.” His eyes narrow in a faint smile. “I do hope my laboratory hasn’t come to bore you?”

“Never,” Kudu murmured, satisfied with the way Piter’s smile widened, the subtle pride in his eyes. “Come,” he insists. “Grant me your company a while longer, will you? I want to see you look on the thing.”

When Piter tilts his head and lets out the smallest chuckle, Kudu knows that he will have his way. "Very well, then. Lead on."

Kudu uses his own identification to breach the unit docks' sealed doors.

As he enters once more with Piter at his side, the ceiling rises high above them in a vaulted dome. Unit-00 is as it was, caged in scaffolding and swarmed with technicians, slumped forward with its mandible at rest. A featureless maw gapes inside the partial helm, and Kudu stares into the black expanse, watching as new paneling is fitted over the pate.

Piter stares with him for a time, but it is not long until his gaze lowers, fixated on the viscid melange filling the dock. It has a greasy sheen to it, yet it never congeals; smooth and inviting, its properties lie somewhere between oil and gelatin. And the stench — with so much of it in one place, the spice is overpowering, a heady kick of warmth in every breath.

 

_Liet Kynes indicates new developments in light of further investigation of the substance emitted by the Worm. Comprehensive chemical configuration remains undetermined; robust assessment is pending. A control group of ten (10) humans exhibiting no environmental or food allergies volunteered to interact superficially with the substance, applying it topically to the back of the hand with no adverse results._

_Participants in several studies report positive responses to the scent and texture of the substance. In a replicated event, it has been noted to smell faintly of cinnamon; this scent is intensified by increasing volume and concentration. An urge among multiple participants to ingest the substance has also been reported, and has thus far been unauthorized and discouraged. While it is possible that the substance is non-toxic if ingested, extensive testing is required._

_ It has been proposed that the substance be called _ melange, _ after the word for "medley" derived from the French verb mesler, “to mix.” _

 

Piter has submitted formal requests to assess the substance further, but Kudu knows that he has grown weary of the process whereby authorization is granted. Melange is coveted, and highly; a full understanding of it seems to evade scientists no matter the progress they make.

Kudu wonders what Piter might do, were they alone in the hull. Perhaps he would sacrifice his scientific decorum for but an instant, darting forward to dip a hand into the mire and bring it to his lips _—_

But they are not alone. They so rarely are.

Faintly, Kudu feels pressure alight on his forearm and linger there. He glances down at Piter's fingers, long and poised as they curl into his sleeve, winding up to take his arm firmly. "Tremendous," he murmurs, his voice inscrutable. "But: twenty-three hundred hours approaches, Captain. I must adjourn."

Kudu nods his acquiescence. "Of course."

As the massive doors shut behind them, Captain Kudu wonders what will become of the MENTΛT chassis in five years, in ten.

He wonders if the world will survive long enough to tell.

* * *

“MENTΛT development accelerated in early 2002 with the construction of prototype Unit-00, otherwise known as "PRIME," from blueprints established in approximately March of 2000. The young man who was to become its pilot was no more than an infant at the time, and Units 01 through 03 were little more than engineering fancies, thought experiments maintained to expand upon mechanical possibilities and resolve the initial design errors of Unit-00.

In time, Gehirn would employ the sophisticated technology necessary to structurally perfect the MENTΛTs. Within ten years, the vessels would be prepared, and pilot experiments would be underway.”

— from Corrino, Irulan, Ph.D: _"The Evolution of Gehirn: Technology, Policy, and Credence."_   (2023)


End file.
